


Breaking Point

by Kevnis



Series: Like a Lead Balloon [4]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, despite that being half my vocabulary in real life, that's right they have sex in this one, there you go you filthy animals, watch me go to extreme lengths to remain poetic and never say any synonym of 'penis'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16347197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kevnis/pseuds/Kevnis
Summary: "Maybe the only way to break free was to, simply put, break."Part 4 of a series that takes place in an AU where humans are born marked with the first words their soulmate will say to them. And, apparently, creatures that take human form can acquire them too.





	Breaking Point

It was the dead of night. All of London was asleep, save for a few bellmen and night watchmen scattered about their posts in the maze of empty, black streets. The soft echo of their steady footsteps off the buildings and cobbled roads were the only sign of life in the sprawling city. And then, of course, there were two others. Two who didn’t sleep, not because their job demanded it, but because they did not need to. 

Outwardly, the little Soho bookshop showed no sign of activity. But sequestered inside the windowless back room, warm candlelight flickered excitedly over the pair of figures who were desperately trying to keep their voices down. This was no small task, considering the state they were in. 

They sat on the floor, leaning heavily against the back wall. A few empty bottles littered the floor, joined by two discarded glasses - abandoned along with any pretence of rationing. A bottle of wine, half-empty, changed hands in the palpitating shadows. 

“Ngh,” Said Crowley as he surrendered the drink, “What- hm, what was I saying?” 

Aziraphale wiped the rim of the bottle and tipped a generous sip into his mouth. He wisely swallowed first, and answered second. 

“I, er. I can’t remember,” He slurred. His thumb skimmed the bottle’s mouth once again before he passed it back. He watched Crowley’s face darken as he focused ever harder on trying to recall what he was just talking about. Aziraphale was less concerned about it. He was fine not knowing. 

Crowley’s eyes, only exposed alone in the dark behind closed doors, seemed to dance in the candlelight. They resonated with its golden glow, shining as if the light they reflected was emanating from within. In Aziraphale’s impaired state of mind, they were hypnotising. 

He didn’t realise he had been leaning in until he was already halfway there. 

Startled, Aziraphale quickly altered his course, awkwardly leaning his head against Crowley’s shoulder. A minute later, he felt the weight of Crowley’s head leaning in turn against his own. He could hear the incessant hammer of his heartbeat in his ears. He could feel the heat radiating from his face. He wondered if it was because he was only just now feeling the alcohol flush that had been there all along, or if his cheeks were truly flaring with an entirely new warmth. It was deafeningly silent. Aziraphale hadn’t minded that before, but now he did. He wondered, desperately, what Crowley was thinking. 

The answer was not like any of the things that Aziraphale’s drunk and distorted mind were conjuring. Crowley was, quite simply, contemplating time. The year was 1791, which meant that on Earth, there had been five thousand - five thousand seven hundred - Crowley’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t kept track, and his drunken haze was making the math very difficult. Five thousand, seven hundred, ninety-five years. There had been 5,795 years of time on Earth. And look where it had taken him. All across the world, all across history, making mischief and inspiring sin, just as he was meant to. And all of it had led here, to the back room of an old shop with an even older owner, whose head was reclined so invitingly on his shoulder. 

Needless to say, things had not gone as planned with Aziraphale. For the first few centuries, certainly, everything had gone swimmingly. He had positively  _ tortured  _ the poor angel. But he had teased and intrigued him just enough to make sure he kept coming back for more. Crowley had enjoyed himself immensely. It was delicious to see the twisted look of inescapable pain on Aziraphale’s face. 

Until it wasn’t. One day, Crowley had seen the look of equal want and fear in his eyes, and it hadn’t brought the same smile to his face. Since that day, the act of frustrating Aziraphale had become less and less fun for him, until it brought him no joy at all. Until he began to loathe it. Something else had sprung up, something that utterly choked his desire to make trouble for his unwilling companion. Something altogether new. 

Crowley stopped tormenting Aziraphale, and started helping him. And Aziraphale helped him in return. It was little things at first; a small favour here, a kindness there. Keeping each other, and therefore themselves, in business. And little by little, something mysterious and novel had taken root in their hearts. 

It was trust. 

It grew like a strangler fig, swift and voracious and all-consuming. Minor favours became consistent support, and tolerance became friendship. Their bond strengthened and bloomed. And they called it “the Arrangement”. It was nothing at all like what Crowley had wanted, or even thought possible, in the beginning. But, he realised, casting a long glance across at the slumped figure of the angel reclining against him, he wouldn’t change it for the world. 

There was a second agreement. Clearly defined, never spoken. Implicit. They had never said so much as a single word about it, and they didn’t need to. They both knew. The silent contract was this: to never mention the writing on their respective forearms, or what it meant, ever again. From the very moment the first spark of amicability had glinted between them, even Crowley committed to long sleeves. Their unfortunate situation was gone, stifled, vehemently ignored. 

But not forgotten. It was impossible to forget. And it’s not as though they didn’t try. But they were incapable of purging that knowledge from the backs of their minds. Like a compulsion, a part of Aziraphale would always remain vigilant of his right arm. The sleeve could never ride up too far, his gaze was always averted from it, and it leapt away from touch as though any contact were as hot as flame. Crowley, too, kept his left arm always slightly too stiff, and always close to him whenever it was remotely possible. No, they could never forget. It controlled them. 

But for the first time in several centuries, it had managed to slip Aziraphale’s mind, just for a minute. He was drunk. He was hot, from the stale atmosphere of a windowless candle-lit room and the effect of the alcohol on his circulation. He pulled his head away from Crowley, breathing in the cooler air with relief, and without thinking or looking, rolled his shirtsleeves up to the elbow. 

It took Crowley more than a full minute to even notice. His mind was still in the past, thinking of a confession that he had made before, painfully, and that he simultaneously wanted and hated to make again. The weak admission that he was sorry, that he regretted how he’d treated Aziraphale in those first several decades, that he wouldn’t dream of acting that way now. He despised it. He hated acknowledging that something in him had changed, become  _ better_ , it almost sickened him, but he knew in his heart of hearts that he wouldn’t,  _ couldn’t  _ do that kind of thing to Aziraphale again, even if he wanted to. And before he realised it, all those pesky thoughts were spilling out of his mouth as words. His jaw clamped shut, but it was too late. Seconds after he had said it, the sound of his own voice finally reached his ears: 

“I’m sorry angel, ‘m really sorry for how I- hng, for what I did in the beginning, you know?” 

It made him cringe worse than hearing nails on a chalkboard. Even more repugnant was when he felt Aziraphale’s arm circle comfortingly around his shoulders. Oh, this was the last thing he needed. Crowley raised the wine bottle to his treacherously loose lips, and there it stayed as he swallowed again and again. 

He put the bottle down, and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. And that was when he saw it, in the corner of his eye. The arm that was draped over him. The black markings barely visible on its underside. Slowly, as though any sudden motion might scare it away, Crowley turned his head and fixed Aziraphale’s right forearm directly in his line of focus. And then he blinked. 

It wasn’t a trick of the light, or his imagination. It was there. Aziraphale’s arm was exposed, and the uppermost lines and loops of a script he hadn’t seen in countless centuries were burning into Crowley’s eyes. 

Aziraphale must have realised where Crowley’s gaze had fallen, because he suddenly removed his arm from around his neck and cradled it close to him, the fingers of his left hand frantically trying to unfurl the sleeve to pull it back down. 

He was interrupted by Crowley’s hand, placed gently but solidly on top of his. He looked up, jarred and confused and scared, the picture of the proverbial deer in the headlights. But Crowley’s deep, glassy eyes betrayed nothing. He was softer than silence itself as he removed his hand from Aziraphale’s and used it to methodically roll up his own left shirtsleeve. 

“S’been a while,” Crowley slurred with a careless hiss, “Let’s leave them out. Just this once.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t agree or disagree. He was far too preoccupied staring at Crowley’s mark. His vision tunnelled around it, and he was overwhelmed with a panicked uncertainty. The thing they both avoided like the plague was right there in front of him, and it was... anticlimactic. Eerily so. The danger that they had caged for so long was released, yet nothing happened. No thunder split the sky overhead to herald divine anger, no fiery pit opened up to swallow them whole. There were only letters. Black letters, older than language itself, spelling out his ancient words. And that was all.  _ Could that really be all?  _

In Aziraphale’s blind periphery, Crowley moved. Gradual, inch by inch. Inward. The perpetrator was unconscious of it at first, but when he became aware, he didn’t stop it. He let the magnetism pull him in. His right hand shifted awkwardly from the floor, reached up to touch Aziraphale’s hair. 

The angel was startled by the contact. He looked up, finding Crowley’s face suddenly much closer than it was before. The demon’s hand lingered at the line of his jaw. 

And then he leaned in closer still. 

And Aziraphale’s heart quaked like an unstable fault line in his chest. 

And his terrified eyes widened into saucers. 

And then, they closed. 

5,795-year-old lips met in the trembling shadows. Softer than an exhale at first, and then, when neither retreated from it, just a hair’s breadth more solid. Crowley’s hand clutched briefly at a cascading lock of Aziraphale’s hair, then slid behind his neck, coaxing his head to a different angle. Each kiss carried more pressure and passion than the last, and it felt like sliding a key into the lock it was made to fit and hearing each pin glide smoothly into place. It was the soft and perfect insertion of a missing puzzle piece into the space it was meant to occupy, the final brushstroke to tie the whole painting together, the discharge of a static buildup being finally released. It was all those glorious Earthly sensations combined, and so much more, because oh, it was  _ him_. 

Crowley pushed, his eager body asking permission, and Aziraphale yielded in welcoming retreat. They fell in a tangle of limbs, with Crowley’s protective hand cushioning the back of Aziraphale’s head from the blow of the hardwood floor. Together, they allowed themselves a moment of breathy laughter, overjoyed and overwhelmed. They pressed their foreheads together, still smiling, still chuckling. And then their faces tilted upwards, and their mouths met again. Wine-soaked lips and tongues moved wantonly against each other, and now their kisses crashed together like the waves of a stormy sea, each crest and trough a synchronised chaos. Strong, and violent, and  _ hungry_. 

Then suddenly, Aziraphale stiffened, and Crowley felt in the air the sudden purge of intoxicant. He pulled away. Aziraphale’s eyes were open with shock, and they were clear. He had sobered up. Crowley quickly followed suit, and back-pedalled away from him as fast as he could manage. For a heart-stopping minute, neither of them spoke. 

“Angel,” Crowley finally spat out, “I-“ 

“No,” Aziraphale whispered, averting his eyes, “Please don’t.” 

Crowley said, “Do you want me to leave?” 

There was no resentment in his voice, and not even a hint of desperation. It was gentle, and genuine. He wouldn’t dare offer comfort through touch, not now, so he tried with all he had to convey it through his voice. He wasn’t very practiced at it, but it came through. Aziraphale heard it clearly. 

“Yes,” He nodded apologetically, “I think you should.” 

“Okay,” Said Crowley, in a tone that said it really was. He picked his rumpled overcoat off the floor, checked the pockets, and dusted it off before draping it over his arm. The left. The writing on it was hidden once again. He made his way to the door, but was halted in his tracks by Aziraphale’s voice. 

“I’m sorry,” It pleaded. Crowley turned to see Aziraphale, now sitting once again with his back against the wall, his head in his hand. He looked lost, and defeated. 

“No,” Crowley murmured insistently, “Don’t be.” 

He reached for the doorknob, then added as an afterthought: 

“You know where to find me.” 

He left the back room, closing the door softly behind him, and a moment later Aziraphale heard the front door of the shop open and close with an echoing finality. He was alone. And that was exactly what he needed. But, he realised as a tremulous breath shuddered in and out of his chest, it wasn’t what he wanted. 

 

* * *

Days passed, then weeks. Crowley waited. He tried to convince himself that he wasn’t nervous, but he was. He confined himself to his usual haunts, minus the bookshop, ensuring that Aziraphale really would know where to find him if - no,  _ when_ , he would be ready to. There was the pub that served the best cider in England and more than decent food, and that didn’t mind Crowley always sitting in the corner and never removing the hat he pulled down low over his brow. There were the busy central streets where Crowley did his best work, causing laughably minor accidents between humans that ruptured hidden tensions and spread ignited wrath like disease. But he found his heart was no longer in his indulgences, nor in his work. So for the most part, and more often than he had in the totality of the past year, Crowley stayed at home. 

He owned a cottage in the West End, relatively small, but handsomely furnished. It had a beautiful bedroom that was hardly ever slept in, an open space with a hearth for entertaining (which Crowley never did), and a small library which contained Crowley’s modest collection of books - the only items in the house that ever felt his touch. But now he found himself perfectly incapable of reading any of them. He would pick an old favourite and recline on his chaise lounge with it, and thumb through the pages. Sometimes he would start at the beginning, and sometimes he would flip straight to a good bit. But it didn’t matter. His eyes skimmed the words, but his mind refused to hold onto any of them. He could read the same passage five times in a row and not glean a word from it. English, French, Greek, any of their contemporaries or ancient predecessors, it didn’t matter. None of it registered. He looked at the black letters on white or off-white or yellow pages, and all he saw was “That one went down like a lead ballon” in stark celestial lettering. He would try to block it from his mind, to focus harder, but every time he did he would be drawn back to distraction by the vivid, visceral memory of Aziraphale’s lips colliding ravenously with his. Crowley may not have had any reproductive equipment unless he actively wished it, but he did have a sex drive, and it was frustrated. More than it had been in his entire life on this planet. It had mounted a bloody coup against his normal ruling thought processes, and won. 

Crowley had been with humans before. The interactions had never gone far, because he shrank away from true intimacy, but he had kissed. Countless times, in fact. It was useful, and occasionally mildly enjoyable, but he had never been terribly fond of it. But of course, none of the kisses he had been a part of before had felt like  _ that_. Nothing else had come so naturally, and made him feel so satisfied and complete, yet at the same time desperate for more. He was desperate still. But it wasn’t more important than Aziraphale’s well-being, he knew. He could stifle his desire, or take care of things himself. And as much as he hated the waiting, he would do that too. He would give Aziraphale all the time and space in the world, if that was what he needed. 

A muffled thudding from across the house nearly made Crowley jump out of his skin. It wasn’t a sound he heard very often at all, but he knew what it was. It was his door knocker. And he knew who had sounded it too, because it was the only one who ever did. He quickly bottled all the feelings that had bubbled, uninvited, to the surface and composed himself, then rose to answer the door. 

For Aziraphale, the past few weeks had gone much the same as they had for Crowley. He tried to distract himself, and failed. He tried to forget, and failed. No matter what he tried to do or how he tried to think, it all circled back to that moment. To the memory of the serpent’s kiss that he accepted. That he reciprocated. That he had  _ liked_. That was the hardest part to reconcile. That it hadn’t been temptation, and it hadn’t been the alcohol. Nothing had influenced him into enjoying it as much as he did. That was all him. And that knowledge had nearly destroyed him. 

But maybe he wanted to be destroyed. Maybe the only way to break free was to, simply put,  _ break_. 

And Aziraphale did want to be free. In his heart of hearts, he knew that. He was sick of being perfect and obedient. He wanted to disobey. To be who he was, not who he was supposed to be. He wanted that, but he hadn’t the faintest idea how. He had perhaps bent the rules on occasion, but never outright opposed them. Yes, as much as it might scare him, Aziraphale knew what he wanted. 

The door opened, and there he stood. Crowley. He stepped aside with a welcoming gesture and beckoned, 

“Come in, angel.” As smooth as ever. 

Maybe there was an ounce of anxiety in his voice, but maybe Aziraphale was only imagining that to soothe his own. Wordlessly, he entered. As he allowed Crowley to silently take his coat, the air between them was charged. He wished he knew with what. 

Aziraphale took his usual chair in the sitting room, folding his hands daintily yet stiffly in his lap. He suddenly felt oddly averse to touching anything of Crowley’s or even taking up too much space. When Crowley followed to take his favourite seat, he still acted perfectly as though he owned the place. Which he did, but he acted that way everywhere. And nothing ever seemed to be able to shake him from it. 

“Are you alright, angel?” He asked politely. Not too little concern, not too much. His voice level and controlled. 

“Yes,” Said Aziraphale, watching his fingers slide and cross over each other. 

“I apologise,” Crowley said, each word carefully measured, “If I was out of line. I was drunk-“ 

He cut himself off with a slight downturn of his lips. 

“I thought-“ 

Again he grimaced. His so cautiously weighted words weren’t coming out correctly. He sighed forcibly, and tried once more. 

“There’s no excuse for it, I’m afraid. My actions were my own. I’m sorry, angel.” 

Crowley was surprised enough at the words that had come out of his own mouth. He was practically petrified by the ones that next came out of Aziraphale’s. 

“Don’t be, my dear.” 

No. He had whispered it. It was too quiet, Crowley hadn’t heard it right. He couldn’t have. 

“What was that you said?” Crowley asked in disbelief. Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly, eyes still planted firmly on his own lap. 

“I said, don’t be. It was, as much as I loathe to admit it, my fault as well as it was yours.” 

For a moment, he looked as though he might be about to elaborate on that, but on second thought sealed his mouth firmly shut and kept it that way. 

“Shall we put that unfortunate episode behind us, then?” Crowley suggested gently. 

A pang of uncertain injury darkened Aziraphale’s face, and though he quickly suppressed it, the ghost of it lingered over his brow. 

“Forget it, you mean,” He muttered. 

“If that’s what you want,” Crowley confirmed accommodatingly, “  _ Is  _ that what you want, angel?” 

His voice took on a slippery quality in the last stretch. It did that often, Aziraphale had noticed, when he asked a question he already knew the answer to. And knowing that Crowley already knew should have made it easier to say, but it didn’t. He bit his lip nervously. 

“No,” He whispered. 

Steadily, gingerly, as though he were approaching a delicate and easily startled creature, Crowley uncoiled from his chair. One careful step closed the distance, and he took a knee in front of Aziraphale. The angel watched, wide-eyed, as his hands first touched his knees, then slid inch by inch further up his lap. They stopped a little more than halfway up his thighs, and then his arms slowly relaxed their weight onto his legs. Aziraphale looked up and found himself suddenly captivated, like a deer in headlights, by the vibrantly yellow eyes, their slit pupils as thin as single lines, that fixed on him unwaveringly. He felt himself swallow, thickly and involuntarily. 

“Do you want to try again?” Crowley softly hissed. This time, his voice was as slippery as an eel. 

Aziraphale couldn’t stand it. There were certain things he didn’t want to say aloud, this among them, and if Crowley  _ knew  _ then why did he have to ask? It was unbearable, the way those defiant eyes bored into the back of his skull and scraped out every thought, but then he had the nerve to present them on a covered platter and force Aziraphale to lift the lid. No, admitting it to Crowley would be one thing. Not easy, but  _ simple_. No words required. But admitting it to himself was another beast entirely. That was where the words came in, and he knew that was why Crowley made him do it, but perhaps the most unfortunate side-effect was that if he spoke that confession aloud, someone else might be listening too. 

Aziraphale’s eyes, finally ripping free of Crowley’s, drifted up towards the ceiling. 

They were abruptly dragged back down with a forceful hand on the back of his head, sternly jerking it to face low once again. Crowley’s gaze locked his back in. He didn’t ask a second time, but his eyebrows flashed upwards expectantly. Aziraphale’s heart twisted in his chest. His eyes squeezed shut in the manner of someone expecting a blow. 

“Yes”, He breathed. 

Crowley grinned. Aziraphale’s eyes were still closed, but he didn’t need to open them to know. The very air around him reverberated with it. 

And then it melted, just as Aziraphale did, into a kiss. Warm, despite the initial cooler temperature of the lips that had initiated it. Warm like coming home from the frigid outdoors and nestling into clean sheets. Warm like the reuniting embrace of a dear friend, not seen in years. Warm like- like- 

Like  _ nothing  _ else, because nothing on Earth or Hell or even Heaven could ever feel this good. Nothing felt like the colliding stars, the magnetic connection, the electric storm of  _ this_. Aziraphale had seen perfection. He had lived it. Allegedly. But that so-called perfection was leagues below the sensation of his mouth meeting Crowley’s, again and again and again. 

He would almost rather fall from grace - and he shouldn’t think that, he knew, because he  _ would  _ \- than feel Crowley pull away. But he did, and Aziraphale shamelessly clung to him, desperate hands stroking and clutching at his retreating jawline. But mercifully, Crowley didn’t go far. He only hung back far enough to whisper, 

“More?” 

Aziraphale silently nodded. A wave of relief washed him clean as Crowley’s lips returned to his in earnest, even as a tear of guilt welled up in one eye. He let it fall, hoping Crowley wouldn’t see it and wishing for that to be the last trace of his conflicted emotions, but he couldn’t truly push aside the underlying tension of it. The knowledge that he would be burned for this. Damned, destroyed, ripped apart and cast out. Forever. He couldn’t purge himself of that threat that had for so long tugged at his strings, but he could, for the first time in his eternal life, be distracted from it. 

And he was distracted. There was no way for him not to be. Because Crowley’s hands were on him. They were all over him, his neck and his chest and his waist, sliding down to his legs and up to his chin, hungrily exploring every inch. Reverent. It felt absolutely divine, not only the touch itself, but the tender care and appreciation it carried. Aziraphale felt safe, and secure, and more in control than perhaps he had ever been. 

A soft, involuntary moan tore itself free from the base of his throat. He let it. And he immediately knew that it had had some degree of an effect on Crowley, because now he was rising from his knee. Gradually, up and up, mounting. Crawling his way into Aziraphale’s chair as his strange tongue continued to roam his mouth and his hands roamed his body. Like a cobra, rearing out of the grass and spreading its hood. Aziraphale’s hands found themselves at his waist. Encouraged, Crowley pulled himself in closer still, his fingertips on Aziraphale’s body curling into claws. Aziraphale’s voice jumped again in response, the vibration of its grunt resonating against Crowley’s lips. With a clear reluctance, he pulled away once more. 

A moment of hesitation, as his darkened eyes scanned Aziraphale up and down. 

Then, 

“Bedroom,” He hissed. It was a question, even if it hadn’t quite come out that way. It didn’t matter. Aziraphale understood. He always understood. Crowley could speak any language in the universe, or even no language at all, and it wouldn’t make a difference. Aziraphale would always,  _ always  _ understand. Even, at times, when he didn’t want him to. 

Yes, Aziraphale understood. And suddenly blushing an unmistakable shade of beet-red, he nodded. 

At the same time, he was aware - peripherally, but  _ very  _ distinctly - that the way Crowley was now resting his hand on Aziraphale’s hip made the backs of his fingers brush, lightly, casually, between his legs. There was nothing for them to brush against. Aziraphale hadn’t made the effort to conjure any human anatomy for himself there, and he was suddenly acutely aware of it. Should he have? Had Crowley done it? Was he expecting him to? 

He didn’t have much time to worry about it. All his anxious thoughts crammed themselves into one split second between his thundering heartbeats, and they were all quieted just as instantaneously. Because Crowley retreated, and rose to his feet, and offered his hand, and that was all it took. Still blushing, and self-consciously aware of it, Aziraphale accepted the hand that was extended to him, and stood. Crowley’s hand, cradled under his, held it with the perfect pressure - not so strong that it would feel controlling, not so light it would feel as though he didn’t really want to be touching him at all - and like this, the epitome of a gentleman, he led Aziraphale through the house. To the room he only actually slept in once in a blue moon. 

Crowley guided Aziraphale to sit on the bed. He didn’t let go of his hand, and instead cocooned it in both of his. He crouched, looking directly and deliberately into his eyes. The inner tips of Aziraphale’s eyebrows raised and furrowed in concern, but he didn’t look away. 

“Are you certain about this, angel?” Crowley asked, sternly. Only the full truth would be acceptable. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale choked out. 

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him, and he scrambled for more words. 

“I’ve had plenty of time to think it over, my dear. I’ll ask you not to treat me like a child.” 

It had come out a tad more defensive than either of them had expected, but behind the mild shock in Crowley’s eyes was acquiescence. Perhaps he had been acting a bit  _ too  _ gentle. 

“You’ve thought about this, have you?” He asked slyly, his hands snaking up the bed on either side of Aziraphale. 

“Yes,” The angel admitted with a shade of guilt, “It may have crossed my mind, even before... before what happened last time.” 

His voice had faltered, and he couldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes anymore, and his face was burning as he spoke, but the words were out nonetheless. And without even realising it, he was beginning to lean back, because Crowley’s hands were crawling further up the bed now, dragging him slowly forward in a measured approach. 

“And when you think about it,” Crowley purred hotly, “How does it go?” 

Aziraphale had to lean back on his arms now, as Crowley leaned forward onto his. And still, he had to continue his retreat downwards as Crowley rose above. 

“It, er,” He stumbled, “Roughly like this, I suppose.” 

“Roughly?” Crowley was over him now; Aziraphale’s back was forced flush into the bed and his feet pushed at the floor and what little ledge they found of the bed frame to slide him backwards as Crowley slowly, playfully continued to give chase. 

“Well, I had assumed you’d be a bit more direct,” Aziraphale said, struggling to fill the narrowing space between them with words. 

“Do you want me to be more direct?” Asked Crowley, who had lowered himself from his hands down to his forearms. Aziraphale inhaled a little too deeply, and his chest brushed slightly against Crowley’s. 

“I believe I’d like that,” He admitted, breathing more shallowly now. 

“Then you’ll have to stop me, if it’s too much,” Crowley warned, his mischievous expression gone for a moment as he cocked one eyebrow in concern. 

“I can,” Aziraphale promised, panting, “I will.” 

The pact was sealed with a kiss. Crowley’s grin returned in a single, delighted flash just before he dipped down to lock their lips. Aziraphale accepted, readily, his nervous hands clasping hard into the unused bedcovers. His mind whirred for a moment, then went blank. And Crowley’s weight was bearing, slowly more and more, down upon him, and the heat trapped between their bodies was stifling and heady, and perhaps it was only psychosomatic, but Aziraphale’s right arm was burning. He could feel the mark, every character of it, in the sweet fiery sting that perfectly traced each line. 

Aziraphale felt Crowley shift on top of him as he broke away and began pressing eager kisses under his jawline and into his neck. He watched as one forearm took Crowley’s weight, freeing the other hand. He felt the demon’s fingers follow the outline of his ribcage downwards. 

Without thinking, Aziraphale blinked. 

As carelessly as it could ever be possible to perform the action, Crowley’s wandering hand cupped inquisitively over Aziraphale’s groin. He grunted in surprise, the reverberation of the sound resonating dully against the skin of the angel’s neck. Aziraphale blushed. 

“Sorry,” He said reflexively, “I thought I-“ 

“No,” Crowley interrupted. His hand curled into a gentle squeeze, and he saw Aziraphale’s expression flinch. Still, he tried to speak again. 

“I thought you wanted-“ 

“No, hush,” Crowley firmly insisted, “I did. So hush. You’re doing fine, angel.” 

Aziraphale’s relief permeated the air as he relaxed back into the bed. Crowley pushed into it, savouring the brief moment of pleasure before Aziraphale inevitably tensed again. 

“Did you-“ Aziraphale tried. 

“Yes, I did,” Said Crowley. 

He lowered his hips and pressed hard against Aziraphale’s leg. Aziraphale tensed again, this time for a different reason. Crowley relented. 

“See, angel? We’re even,” He reassured cockily. 

Aziraphale made a low, stifled sound. As if in answer, Crowley finally removed his hand from between his legs. It slid up his chest, and set to work expertly liberating the buttons of his loose white shirt from their buttonholes. Aziraphale fumbled to help him, and with both hands managed to undo the last two himself. He lifted himself briefly off the bed at Crowley’s beckon to allow him to rip the shirt from his shoulders, whipping it off and tossing it carelessly across the room. Aziraphale quickly decided that it would be best to cooperate fully with the removal of the rest of his clothes, since Crowley seemed just a bit enthusiastic, and he would strongly prefer that his clothing remain intact. 

Crowley was undressing himself as well. Watching him made Aziraphale glad of the relative delicacy he used with him. He was much more apathetic towards his own garments, and Aziraphale was sure he heard the distinct sound of tearing at least three separate times. And then it was all done, and he felt no different. It was odd. He had thought he would feel different. Vulnerable, or exposed. But he didn’t. He felt the same. 

Because, of course, it was Crowley. It dawned on him, suddenly obvious. Because they had known each other for more than five thousand years. Because they had seen each other, in every form and every fashion. Because they  _ knew  _ each other, they knew more vital things than this, and by comparison seeing each other, and being together, human and bare, was not all that significant in the grand scheme of things. 

And then there was skin on skin, hot and soft and longing. There was a kiss, warm and wet. And there was touch, reciprocated. Aziraphale was swept up in it, he was consumed by it. He loved it without shame. And he participated, enthusiastically, in the creation of it. His hands slid over Crowley’s back and clasped into his hair. He shifted his legs, better accommodating Crowley’s torso and rubbing them lightly against his legs before entwining them together. And he moaned. It wasn’t conscious; his body wanted him to do it and he didn’t have the wherewithal to care or to stop it. And a hand, curious, began to make its way inch by inch down Crowley’s body. 

Crowley ate it all up. The view, the sounds, the elated sensation of their contact. Whenever and wherever Aziraphale touched him, it felt like he was imbuing his skin with light. It was so freeing and so beautiful, and he wanted it never to end. 

And then Aziraphale’s hand, uncertain but wanting, found its way around Crowley in a place and in a way that he hadn’t expected. 

“Ngh!” Crowley exclaimed before swiftly biting his tongue. Aziraphale’s hand retracted. 

“No,” He followed with a grunt, “No, angel, don’t stop.” 

So Aziraphale didn’t. 

Neither of them did. 

Crowley moved, shifting some of his weight onto Aziraphale. Their ribs slid against each other with each desperate breath, only barely confining their quaking hearts. And then Crowley, searching his counterpart’s face for any sign of nonverbal approval or disapproval, glided a hand down his body. Aziraphale’s eyes told him the former. So he returned the favour that had been given to him, and wrapped his eager hand around the part of Aziraphale that until very recently had not existed. Aziraphale winced first, a vestigial reaction, then loudly exhaled the stress of that remnant inhibition away. 

Nestled intimately into the angel’s neck, the gleam of Crowley’s gaze peered at him from under his jaw. Still watching, never blinking, waiting for any indication that it might be too much, too fast. He didn’t receive one. The soft grip of his hand slid back and forth, up and down, slowly at first. When Aziraphale’s expression contorted into tortured pleasure, harder. Aziraphale moaned as his hand almost subconsciously started to mirror Crowley’s movements. The knuckles of their thumbs, pressed together, ground into and against each other. It was distracting. Crowley nudged Aziraphale’s hand away, to take matters into his own. 

He slid easily into his own grasp, rubbing against the same appendage of Aziraphale’s. The sensation of it was electrifying. He hissed hot air through his teeth, but didn’t groan. Aziraphale did. Loudly. Crowley pretended not to hear the whispered curse that followed as he tightened his grip and continued to masturbate the two of them together. His body moved of its own will, contracting the muscles of his abdomen and forcing his hips to rock forward. Aziraphale’s hands found and clutched at them, encouraging him to do it again, as much as he wanted. He did it himself too, thrusting, only somewhat restrained, into every pump of Crowley’s hand. 

Together. 

Their lips found each other again, and the kiss that followed was uncoordinated and messy and perfect. Every sound that Aziraphale made into it, Crowley could feel. They were the sweetest sound he had ever tasted and, when his guard slipped, he responded with a few of his own. Grunts and growls; strangled, deep, and ancient. 

And then Aziraphale suddenly exclaimed, and Crowley knew why. The sound was a cry as old as the beasts that had been made on the fifth day. Then his lips silently formed around the syllables of a word that was a mere few years older than that, and Crowley felt a tight rush in his chest to read the shape of his name. 

Together. 

That was how their union reached its conclusion: hot and wet and  _ human_ , and together. Simultaneous. No longer able to support it, Crowley’s full weight fell onto Aziraphale, and there they stayed for several seconds. Breathing, and vibrating with waves of shock and awe. Crowley, who usually tried very hard not to reminisce about Heaven, couldn’t have remembered it now if he tried. What he had just had was so much better. To his shame, Aziraphale felt the same way. 

And perhaps it was only psychosomatic, but Crowley’s left arm was burning. 

He leapt back as though possessed, instantly relieving the pressure of him from Aziraphale’s torso, and his wide, unblinking stare betrayed concern. 

“Angel,” He heaved, trying and failing to conceal the fact that he was still panting, “Are you- How are you?” 

“I’m perfectly fine, my dear,” Aziraphale reassured. His voice shook, only slightly, but enough to ensure he wasn’t convincing in the slightest. 

He coaxed Crowley back down into his arms, and not knowing what else to do, Crowley followed. Aziraphale was trembling now, throughout the whole of his body, and Crowley held him tightly, as though that alone would keep him from shaking himself apart. Crowley was no good with words when they were raw and honest and open. He couldn’t say what he felt, couldn’t even think it, because he had no words to put to it. But if he did, he would have said that it was alright. That Aziraphale didn’t have to be fine, not yet. That he would stay here and hold him, for as long as it took. Forever, if he had to. 

He didn’t say that. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. But he buried his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder, and constricted his embrace even tighter. And luckily, as he always did, Aziraphale understood. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, this fic is 6666 words long (according to the program I wrote it on; not to AO3 apparently. Blame the hyphens). Why? Because when I (finally) finished, it was 6653 words, and naturally my brain immediately went "Hey, you know what we could do with some minor changes?" So, there you go. This is Satan's porn now.


End file.
